


something like a smile

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Injury Recovery, M/M, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 22:17:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: There are only so many things that can make a man an outsider, and Lieutenant Courtenay is clearly capable of exhausting the list.





	something like a smile

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings for racism, homophobia, and ableism, though none more severe than what occurs in the show to begin with.

After going over the post with Lieutenant Courtenay, the rest of the day is largely uneventful, or at least as uneventful as a day in a wartime hospital can be.

Thomas spends it alone. He's not formed a connection with any of the other patients, isn't close to any of the nurses but Sybil (though 'close' is a stretch at best), and Major Clarkson is hardly one to talk to, so when he's not in the main hall he's never really got company. 

Doesn't much mind it, though.

Besides, Thomas isn't quite like the rest of them. The other medical officers are older than he is, for one, several haven't been in France since before the war started.

And even before the war, same as now, if he's in a crowded room, he knows he's on his own when it comes down to it.

***

Once evening comes, he's back in the thick of things.

***

"It's Corporal Barrow, sir," Thomas says, pulling up a chair. Courtenay turns toward him, face unreadable.

"You called yourself different, this morning."

What a greeting.

He can't respond to that, doesn't know what he could possibly _say_; besides that, it's not like they're not the only men in the room.

God, he wishes they were, though. That'd make all of this much easier, if Courtenay wasn't constantly surrounded by hustle and bustle and pain and suffering. More likely to cheer up without the constant reminders of how bleak everything is for his comrades in arms.

"Are you… _deformed_, somehow?" 

He can tell Courtenay's been thinking about this all day, wondering what could be so crudely exceptional about him that he's been 'pushed around' his whole life.

Really, he shouldn't have said anything in the first place.

"No, sir, not that I'm aware of."

It's a bad joke, but Courtenay's lips form something like a smile nonetheless.

"May I touch you?"

"I — yes, sir, go on, then," and he leans forward, takes Courtenay's outstretched hand and presses it to his cheek. He wonders who else Courtenay's done this with. Lady Sybil would have allowed it for sure, and the other nurses, probably, though as far he knows none of them are that special. Then, he's not that special, himself.

But he must be one of the first, and despite how sad the whole bloody business is he's almost pleased at the thought. He'd never have thought he'd count being touched by a blind man a privilege. 

"And you must be fully able and have all your senses," he goes on. "They wouldn't have let you to the front if you didn't."

His fingertips linger on the bridge of his nose and the edges of his lips.

"Not coloured, or Indian?" 

Wrong to be irked by that, probably, but he is. Courtenay's touching his cheek again, lightly curling his fingers underneath his jaw, and Thomas lets his eyes close for a half second before opening them with a start. Whatever it reminds him of, this _isn't that_, and now's not the time or place to get sentimental. It's not right when Courtenay's got an officer rank and a girl back home, anyway.

"No, sir."

Courtenay hums and pulls his hand away; Thomas settles back in his chair and exhales the breath he didn't realise he was holding.

This is the first time he's ever seen Courtenay in a good mood, over all the days he's been here, and he wants, more than anything, for it to last forever. Even scarred up he's got a beautiful smile, and there are crinkles around his unfocused eyes. He must have been handsome before. He _is_ handsome. If things were different, if there weren't a war going on…

Well, then they'd never have met, now, would they.

"No, you don't sound it. Catholic, then," like he's solved an especially trying riddle.

"Anglican through and through." Or at least he would be, if he weren't unconvinced of God's existence.

"So not Jewish either —"

"Corporal Barrow," calls a nurse as she passes, "if you've already done your duty, please allow Lieutenant Courtenay a rest."

He _hates_ the implication, but can't deny that the interruption is welcome.

There are only so many things that can make a man an outsider, and Lieutenant Courtenay is clearly capable of exhausting the list.

***

The next morning he administers pills, and by the time he's at Courtenay's bed he's already exhausted — didn't sleep well, maybe, and one of the newer patients is being difficult. Not a wonderful way to start the day.

So he forgets to announce himself.

"Barrow, is that you?"

"Yes, sir. My apologies."

He's not smiling today, but he's facing the right direction and doesn't seem on the verge of shattering. Like the rest of them, his mental condition ebbs and flows. He's never quite happy, nor even _positive_, but last night seemed like a breakthrough; the downs of the days before, when he was still bandaged up and blistered, feel distant.

Still, when he's down, he's _down_. Courtenay's abject quiet is worse than the others' lows, though, worse than the tearful, nervous twitching and the shouts and flails that the rest of the patients are prone to, because at least when a man is violent or crying you know he's still feeling, still alive, even if that feeling is rage or misery.

When Courtenay is down, it's like he's dead inside.

***

" — oh, there's Corporal Barrow, he'll do it for sure — Corporal!"

"What's this?"

"Only there's post for Lieutenant Courtenay, poor dear, and he won't let any of us read it to him, and I couldn't find Nurse Crawley, but he does like you, doesn't he?"

He's got three young, pretty nurses staring at him with hopeful eyes, and that does jack for him, but God, those words do.

***

"I won't hear it."

"Won't read it to you, then, sir."

An impasse if there ever was one, but Courtenay's got hold of his elbow, so it's not like he can up and leave.

"I bet I could tell you exactly what it says, you know. Every _detail_," and his grip gets a little firmer, but Thomas won't flinch, won't move a muscle, because his role to play right now is _rock_, "every little way they're about to take over my life, it's ship-shape and they've planned it all, father and mother and Ja — "

"Lieutenant Courtenay." He's not supposed to interrupt the patients, has, in fact, been given direction specifically _not_ to interrupt, because these men have enough going on without feeling unheard, but he can't just sit here and listen to a downward spiral in action.

"Corporal Barrow, I…"

"No need to tell."

He won't try to give him another pep talk. It's clearly not wanted.

Courtenay's nails dig into his arm for a moment before he lets go, and for a moment, Thomas thinks that _this is it_, that here's a low point again, and it's his own damn fault for being the fourth in a row to try with the letter. Four reminders of how different things are going to be for him after all this, when he's clearly been agonizing over it for every hour of every day since he arrived.

"Would you like me to go, sir?"

"No. No. Stay. I've figured it out, you see," Courtenay says. Urgent, but the bitter tone in his voice is gone already. "Figured you out, Barrow."

As bad as it is to do so, he thanks his stars that Courtenay can't see his face, because he's grimacing something awful.

"Have you, sir."

He knows, though, by the look of him, that he has. 

_Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it._

"You're a queer, aren't you," says Courtenay, in a voice so low that Thomas strains to hear him.

Well. At least it wasn't a bloody announcement.

But he can't speak, can't do anything, really. He ought to deny it, but he's suddenly hollow, and it seems his silence is as good as an affirmation.

"Didn't think of it at first, to be honest. You're not like the ones I've met, all simpering and flowery."

Thomas winces. "The ones you've met."

"Told you I'd been at Oxford," he mutters. "It — it goes on there, with boys like you, one'd have to be blind not to —"

He shudders violently at his own words, and Thomas cautiously sets his hand on his knee. He's done it before, and he's lying to himself if he thinks nothing will change after this conversation. But Courtenay doesn't push him off, though his expression is so pained he wonders if he even knows he's there anymore.

Sometimes he thinks all he can do for any of these men is soothe, but that talent only really comes out with one patient, and he's sitting right here in front of him.

Is it better to ignore the comment and forge ahead, or to address it, or to leave him be?

More often than not this week it's been to go on, so that's what he does.

"I can't pretend to know what goes on at places like that, sir," he replies eventually, his heart thumping in his chest.

Wrong choice. Courtenay turns his head away and jerks his leg, and Thomas parts from him as though burned.

"I'll… be back around this evening, Lieutenant."

On his way out of the hall he bumps shoulders with Lady Sybil, and he can't stop himself from reacting by reflex alone: "Pardon me, your Ladyship," and by the time she gently reminds him to call her 'Nurse Crawley', he's paces away.

***

On his evening round Thomas drops a tray full of draughts in glass bottles, and the whole room starts at the clatter — himself included.

Some more than others.

A man in the corner, a new one whom he's not been introduced to and whose name and ailment he doesn't know yet, presses his palms to his ears and starts rocking back and forth in his bed, moaning. Thomas stands still, frozen like a deer meeting a hunter, as a nurse rushes over — "Captain Edwards, mind your shoulder," and he sees that one of his arms is now out of a sling and it's bent strange and the whole thing is purple and green, bruised, and despite having seen far worse he thinks he's going to be sick —

"I can take over from here, Corporal Barrow."

It's Nurse Crawley.

"Can't do bloody anything right today," he says under his breath, and then starts to apologize for his language, but she shakes her head.

"I've heard plenty worse."

And he just stands there, arms limp at his sides, until she takes his wrist and says softly, "go and rest, Thomas."

After his error this morning, he's not prone to correct her. 

And maybe he's already proven himself, and doesn't need to anyway.

***

"Lieutenant Courtenay asked after you," says Sybil. She's in the process of untying her apron, not looking at him.

He quickly puts out his smoke and stands up straight.

They're on the alley side of the courtyard, the area roped off from the patients and accessed via a seldom used corridor, and until now he's thought the place fairly private.

Maybe it is, and she's just more observant than all the rest.

"Did he."

"Yes. He said you'd told him you'd be going round in the evening, and wondered if the fuss he heard was you."

He nods. She doesn't have to go on. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth."

Not quite what he was hoping to hear, but it's better than Courtenay thinking he's avoiding him. Besides, it's not like Lady Sybil to lie, and he's the last person on Earth who deserves her to, probably.

***

As they're headed back inside, they come up with a plan.

***

"Good morning, Lieutenant Courtenay," and then before he can reply, she adds, "it's Nurse Crawley, and Corporal Barrow is here with me. We were wondering if you might like to go outside today?"

***

They only walk in circles around the courtyard, the Lieutenant between he and Lady Sybil, linked arm-in-arm. Sybil chatters about their surroundings, but she's _intentional_ about it, and Thomas knows this is definitely not how she'd make small talk while outside with her sisters: "...it _is_ such a lovely day, isn't it, not as cold as it was, how nice to know that winter is coming to an end. Even the robins are happy, or they shouldn't be singing so beautifully. Springtime is distinctive, I think, and the breeze today is such a splendid example! Doesn't one feel refreshed? In autumn it would be different..."

And she carries on, commenting on sounds and feelings and smells that Thomas has never given any thought to before in his life, because his eyes have always taken care of that for him.

Courtenay says nothing, even after Sybil has stopped speaking, until Thomas nearly trips on a larger piece of gravel and almost pulls them all down.

But Sybil is mindful, and she supports Courtenay as he lets go of him to right himself.

Once they're walking again: "But what does it _look_ like?"

He and Sybil glance at one another.

"She wasn't wrong," says Thomas after a poignant pause. "It's lovely. We've got a blue sky today, Lieutenant Courtenay, not one cloud, and after all the gray it's a much welcome sight…"

Sybil smiles at him, and he returns it.

***

"...and why can't I even _walk_ on my own, it's my face that was gassed, not my legs — "

"Sight affects balance, Lieutenant," says Sybil gently. And so, they both know, can shell shock, which Major Clarkson proposed as the reason for his moods, though they both privately agreed they weren't too sure. "If Corporal Barrow were to shut his eyes and amble around he'd have a bit of trouble, too."

"But you'll adjust, sir," says Thomas, helping him back into bed. After all of it, Courtenay's still not shy in touching him, and he's not entirely sure what to make of it.

Normally that's the first thing to change once someone finds out.

"And then we might get you a stick, to help you start moving on your own… oh, dear, I ought to go. Corporal, could you help him with the eyedrops? I told Nurse Laura I'd assist with Major Shaw's bandages, and it's about time now."

After she's stepped away, Courtenay says, "I want to try myself," so Thomas prepares the saline and hands him the dropper.

When he'd first arrived it'd been constant — every thirty minutes to an hour or so undoing the bandages, irrigating his eyes, and then redoing them again. They'd gone through a couple of jars of vaseline for his face alone, but now the eye drops aren't a medical necessity so much as a precaution, only a few times daily and less of a hassle, too, now that there are no newly broken blisters to mind.

And now that Thomas has come to know and like him.

He watches him handle the dropper with care, touching his finger to the pipette end and then the bulb, and carefully keeping it in the same orientation as he draws it up to his face.

It's a delicate balance, all this, but Courtenay is beginning to manage.

***

"I don't think less of you, you know," Courtenay says that evening. He squeezes Thomas's hand.

"Thank you, sir." Thomas swallows. "That means a lot to me."

***

The three of them make good progress together: Lieutenant Courtenay is soon able to get up and move about on his own without swaying back and forth; a nurse turns up with a stick and a braille reader that they quickly make use of; he gets friendlier, more talkative, even if the gloom and dissatisfaction remain present underneath it all. 

Slowly but surely, the life comes back to him.

And Corporal Thomas Barrow realises he's in love.

**Author's Note:**

> this is, in fact, baby's first Downton Abbey fic. saw the movie without having seen the show on September 21st, finished watching the show at 4:45 in the morning on September 29th, and then watched the movie again later that day, so, the entire series is a bit of a jumble in my mind. hope you enjoyed reading, because i'm very nervous to be posting in a new fandom for the first time in years.
> 
> i intended this to be canon compliant, assuming that some days passed between the scenes featured in 2.02, but if you prefer it not be, there's also some leeway. choose your own adventure.
> 
> i am also on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/)!


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